Where was Avraham for Three Days?

Where was Avraham when he was commanded to sacrifice his son? Why did it take him three days to arrive at Mount Moriah? When did Sarah die? After the Akeidat Yitzhak, did Avraham return to where he had set out from?

After Avraham and Lot parted ways, Avraham settled in Elonei Mamre by Hebron (Genesis 13, 18).

Following the destruction of Sodom, Avraham moved to Gerar (20, 2).

After Avraham bid farewell to King Avimelekh of Gerar, he moved to Beersheba at some point, where Yitzhak was apparently born (20, 15; 22, 33).

The narrative sequence above makes it sound as if Avraham was living in Beersheba when God commanded him to sacrifice Yitzhak. After the Akeida, the Torah describes Avraham going to Beersheba on what appears to be a return trip (22, 19).

Right after placing Avraham in Beersheba at the end of the Akeida, the Torah relates that Sarah died in Hebron (Genesis 23, 1-2). Had Avraham and Sarah been living in Hebron or Beersheba?

If we assume that Sarah’s death occurred at a much later time (and not right after the Akeida), then there would have been time for Avraham and Sarah to move from Beersheba to Hebron at some point. Ramban adopts this view in his interpretation based on the simple meaning of the text.

Rashi’s commentary, however, follows a midrash that describes Sarah dying immediately after and as a result of the Akeida. Rashi writes that Avraham and Sarah were living in Hebron at the time of the Akeida: The Torah’s comment about Avraham dwelling in Beersheba does not mean that he was living there in a substantial way.

Ramban’s explanation of Rashi’s view is that Avraham passed through Beersheba to the Eshel that he had planted there, in order to offer thanks for the miracle that had occurred to him, the angel spoaring Yitzhak’s life.

Ramban points out that his own view can easily explain why it took Avraham three days to arrive at the area of Mount Moriah: Avraham received the Divine command in Beersheba—and Beersheba is a considerable distance from Mount Moriah!

Though Hebron is much closer to Jerusalem, Rashi’s opinion can still account for the three days it took Avraham to carry out God’s command. Ramban explains that in Rashi’s version of events, Avraham was wandering and exploring the mountains surrounding Jerusalem for the first two days. Avraham couldn’t yet bring Yitzhak up to the mountain-- because God did not tell Avraham mountain he was to ascend until the third day! After all, God said in the original command that He would specify which mountain it was to be (22, 2).

Alternatively, the proximity of Hebron to Jerusalem – no more than a day’s travel – and the fact that that it took 3 days to reach Mount Moriah, points to a complex spiritual state of mind that Avraham was in on the way to completing the task of the Akeida.

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Yishmael: Son of the Handmaiden or Son of Avraham?

What were Avraham and Sarah really arguing about? Is sending Yishmael and his mother to the desert the ethical thing to do? What does this chapter reveal vis-à-vis Yishmael’s status as the child of Avraham?

Teenager Yishmael and Yitzhak, a toddler just weaned, are living in the same household. Sarah perceives Yishmael as a threat. She wants to send Yishmael and his mother away so that he will not inherit along with Yitzhak. From Sarah’s point of view, Yishmael’s status is that of the handmaiden’s son.

But Sarah’s idea is troubling to Avraham, who sees Yishmael as his young son who is still a child. Avraham relates emotionally to Yishmael in a similar way to the way Hagar looks at Yishmael: They both see the maturing adolescent Yishmael as a young child.

The Torah returns to describing Yishmael as a child from the moment Avraham sends him away until the angel comes to Hagar. Hagar is described as leaving “the child” under a bush so that she wouldn’t have to watch “the child” die.

In His revelation to Avraham, God agrees with Sarah in her argument. He refers to Yishmael as the “handmaiden’s son” and not as the inheriting son of Avraham. God consoles Avraham by telling him that this adolescent will grow to become a nation.

In a similar vein, the angel speaking to Hagar refers to Yishmael as an adolescent. Her “eyes are opened” and she gives her son water to drink, now that he has “transformed” into an adolescent.

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Yoktan's Name

In the latter section of Parashat Noach (chapters 10-11) the Torah presents a genealogical record of the descendants of Noach’s three sons. We read that Eiver, a great-grandson of Noach’s son Shem, begot two sons named Peleg and Yoktan (10:25). Peleg, we are told, was so named because “the land was dispersed” during his lifetime, presumably referring to the incident of Migdal Bavel (the Tower of Babel), of which we read in the next section. (We should note, however, that Rashi, in Divrei Hayamim I 1:20, explains this phrase differently.) As Rashi cites from the Midrash, Eiver prophetically foresaw this cataclysmic event at the time of Peleg’s birth, and named him accordingly.

Commenting on the following verse, which begins to list the names of Yoktan’s children, Rashi tells us that his name, too, has etymological significance, and originates from the word katan – small. Citing from the Midrash, Rashi writes that Yoktan conducted himself very humbly, and was rewarded for his unassuming character with thirteen sons.

The Targum Rav Yosef (the Aramaic translation of Divrei Hayamim) in Divrei Hayamim I (1:20) gives a different explanation of the word “Yoktan,” namely, that life expectancy began to sharply decline during his time. Indeed, a review of the final section of Parashat Noach (11:10-32) reveals that people began to live considerably shorter lives after Eiver’s death. Eiver lived 464 years (11:16-17), whereas his son, Peleg, lived just 239 years, as did his grandson, Re’u. This progression continued steadily in the next generations (with the exception of Nachor’s relatively short lifespan): Serug – 230; Nachor – 148; Terach – 205; Avraham – 175.

Rav Eliyahu Mizrachi, in his work on Rashi’s commentary, addresses the question of why Rashi felt compelled to suggest an interpretation for Yoktan’s name. Why did he assume that the name “Yoktan” was of any significance? Rav Eliyahu Mizrachi suggests that the connection between the name “Yoktan” and the word katan is clear and evident, and we should therefore assume that Eiver (and perhaps his wife) had this in mind when choosing this name. Indeed, Rav Eliyahu Mizrachi notes, one of Yoktan’s sons was named Chatzarmavet, and the Midrash (briefly paraphrased by Rashi on this verse; see notes in the Torat Chayim Chumash), finds significance in the connection between this name and the word mavet (death). Rav Eliyahu Mizrachi further suggests that Eiver’s having named Peleg for a specific event might have led one to believe that Yoktan was likewise named for a particular event that occurred during his lifetime. Rashi therefore sought to clarify that Yoktan was so named because of his remarkable humility, rather than for some historical event. Rav Eliyahu Mizrachi expresses his strong preference for the first explanation he proposed.

Rav Shlomo Ha-kohen of Vilna, in his work Binyan Shelomo (cited in the compendium Ke-motzei Shalal Rav), claims that Rav Eliyahu Mizrachi’s entire discussion overlooks Rashi’s explicit remarks in his commentary to Sefer Divrei Hayamim I (1:20). Rashi there comments that the names of other people of this time are not subject to etymological analysis because they were not assigned prophetically. Eiver, as the Midrash tells, was a prominent prophet, and his sons’ names thus have deep significance; the same cannot be said of the other people mentioned in this list. For this reason, the Binyan Shelomo contends, Rashi found it necessary to analyze Yoktan’s name because it was given to him by his father, a distinguished prophet.

It should be noted that in Divrei Hayamim Rashi does not actually say that Eiver’s prophetic powers compel us to interpret the name his gave Yoktan; Rashi merely writes that other names do not lend themselves to interpretation because they were not prophetically assigned.

We might suggest a simpler reason why Rashi found it necessary to comment on Yoktan’s name. It is perhaps revealing that Rashi does not comment on the Torah’s initial mention of Yoktan (“and his [Peleg’s] brother’s name was Yoktan” – 10:25); he makes his remarks only on the next verse – “And Yoktan begot Almodad, Shalef, Chatzarmavet…” This might indicate that what motivated Rashi’s analysis of Yoktan’s name was not the name itself, but rather the Torah’s list of his children’s names. As mentioned earlier, Yoktan begot thirteen sons – a much higher number of children than we find among other people mentioned in these genealogical records. Rashi perhaps sought to explain why Yoktan – a man otherwise shrouded in obscurity – was deserving of so many children, and for this reason he interpreted the name “Yoktan” as an allusion to the man’s exceptional virtue of modesty. This also explains why Rashi felt it necessary to conclude his remarks by commenting, “He therefore earned the merit of establishing all these families.” This clearly suggests that Rashi here seeks to explain not the name Yoktan, but rather why he – more than the other personalities listed in this chapter – was blessed with so many children who themselves founded large families.

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The Tower of Babel: A Beacon of Idolatry

Parashat Noach tells the famous story of Migdal Bavel, the tower the people in Babylonia sought to build “to the heavens” (11:4). This project incensed the Almighty, who disrupted the plan by having the participants speak different languages, such that no cooperation between them was possible.

The ambiguity in the Torah’s narrative of this incident has resulted in a considerable amount of literature devoted to identifying the precise nature of the sin committed by the builders of the city and tower. A strong Midrashic tradition associates the sin of Migdal Bavel with idolatry, or at least something resembling idolatry. Rashi, for example, cites one view that the people attempted to rise to the heavens and wage war against the Almighty. At first glance, however, the punishment appears a bit mild for a grave transgression such as idolatry. This is particularly so in light of the well-established tradition (Sifrei, Parashat Eikev; Shemot Rabba, 15; and elsewhere) that floods ravaged the earth during the generation of Enosh as punishment for their idolatry. Why was idolatry punished with destruction during the time of Enosh, and with dispersion at the incident of Migdal Bavel?

Rav Yaakov David Willowski, in his Nimukei Ridbaz (Chicago, 1904), suggests the following, novel approach to understanding this incident. He notes the poetic, almost festive, style in which the people spoke to one another in devising their plan: “Hava nilbena leveinim… hava nivneh lanu ir…” – “Come, let us make bricks… Come, let us build a city…” (11:3-4). It appears, the Ridbaz suggests, that the project’s initiators worked to draw support for their cause by promoting it through warmth and friendship. They advertised the city and tower in as attractive, inviting terms as possible, enchanting the masses with a kind and welcoming demeanor. Combining this impression with the traditional association between Migdal Bavel and paganism, we can begin to imagine what this campaign was all about. According to the Ridbaz, although idolatry had been prevalent on earth since the days of Enosh (see Rambam, beginning of Hilkhot Avoda Zara), it was only now that proponents of idolatry set out to disseminate their beliefs and bring the entire world into their faith. They accomplished this through the veil of a “social” agenda, inviting all people to take part in and enjoy an equal share of a new endeavor. The spectacular new city would benefit anyone who took part in the project. The initiators hoped in this way to gain widespread support for their idolatrous beliefs, and gradually impose their religion upon all mankind.

This easily explains the punishment God chose for the builders of the tower. Since they embarked on this campaign through loving kindness, by speaking the language of the prospective participant, by bringing together all people in harmony and friendship, they were punished through the loss of communication and interaction. They deviously used love and brotherhood to promote a sinful agenda, and God therefore caused friction and disunity, dispersing the united participants in this project into many different places and cultures.

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Noah: Changing Times

Although the primary story of Noach is told in Parashat Noach, he is introduced already earlier, towards the end of Parashat Bereishit. There we read that upon Noach’s birth, his father, Lemekh, declared, “This one shall bring us solace from our work and hard labor, from the earth that the Lord had cursed” (5:29). As explained in the Midrashim and classic commentaries, in Noach’s lifetime new machinery was developed to ease the agricultural process, thus marking the first stage of improvement since God cursed the ground as punishment for Adam’s sin. According to the Midrash Tanchuma, with Noach’s birth the land itself became friendlier and easier to till.

There is some discussion as to how Lemekh knew all this would occur during his son’s lifetime already at the time of his birth. The Radak cites a Midrashic source claiming that Lemekh was endowed with prophetic powers; according to others, there were certain indications at Noach’s birth that the world was about to enter a kindlier phase. (See Torah Sheleima, chapter 5, note 80.) In any event, Noach clearly represented to his generation the dawn of a new era in human history; he was looked upon as a symbol of hope for a brighter future, for the end of the curse brought upon mankind, and for perhaps some sort of return to the primordial paradise of pre-sin man.

There is, of course, bitter irony in this symbolic role served by young Noach. As an older man, he heralded doom and destruction. While his contemporaries looked to Noach as a symbol of a better world, he turned around and predicted the end of the world. The man who represented hope and prosperity thus became the symbol of destruction and despair. This perspective perhaps sheds some light on the Midrashic descriptions of the mockery and scorn to which Noach was subjected as he proceeded to construct the ark. Noach’s contemporaries perhaps not merely scoffed at Noach, but resented him, as well. They saw his prophecies of doom as a betrayal of everything he had represented and all the hope and promise he brought with him into the world.

A simple but meaningful lesson perhaps emerges from this story of Noach: the importance of adjusting to sudden changes in direction. Try as we may to chart the precise route of our lives, Providence has its way of interfering with our plans and pointing us in a much different direction. Noach rose to the challenge heroically. Despite his and his contemporaries’ aspirations for a better, more promising world, he nevertheless accepted the divine decree and his new role as the harbinger of catastrophe, rather than the symbol of hope. Similarly, we are often called upon to shift gears and adapt to a much different reality and role than what we had previously envisioned. The lesson of Noach, perhaps, is to accept changes in fate and be prepared, when necessary, to reroute our lives to meet the new challenges ahead.

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Babylonia: Ideal Spot for the Tower

Towards the end of Parashat Noach, the Torah tells the famous story of Migdal Bavel. We read that the people of the time traveled east and "found a valley in the land of Shinar, and they dwelled there" (11:2). Rashi, citing Bereishit Rabba, explains that they searched for an area large enough to contain them all, and the valley of Shinar, which later became known as Babylonia, was the only suitable location.

There may, however, be an additional reason for their selection of this region as the site for their settlement. The next verse tells that the people decided to begin producing bricks, which they used in place of stones for building. Ultimately, of course, they use the bricks for building the infamous "city and a tower with its top in the heavens" (11:4). Rashi comments that the people of the time began producing bricks because there were no stones in the low-lying region of Babylonia. Rav David Shaul Greenfeld (of Creteil, France), in his work Be-ne'ot Deshe, suggests that it is no accident that the people of this generation chose to live in a region with no rocks. As many writers have explained, the project of Migdal Bavel was intended as a celebration of human ingenuity and industriousness. When the Midrash speaks of the builders of the city planning to "wage war against God" (see Rashi, 11:9), it perhaps refers to a desire to establish mankind's independence and self-sufficiency, to demonstrate that they are no longer dependent on God's assistance and favor, and are capable of developing the world through their independent strengths and talents. As part of this endeavor, they specifically chose as the site for their "rebellion" a region with no natural building resources. They wanted to ensure that their city and tower would bear exclusively the imprint of human ingenuity, and resemble the raw, natural elements to as small an extent as possible.

The choice of Babylonia as the site for their residence was thus an integral part of their misguided vision, to create a society – and, ultimately, an entire world – that would not feel any sense of dependence on God, and that would establish mankind's self-sufficient ability to build and cultivate the earth.

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Moshe vs. Noah: Humility vs. Haughtiness

Earlier this week, we cited a famous comment in the Midrash (Bereishit Rabba 36:6) contrasting Noach with Moshe. Whereas Noach is initially introduced as a "righteous man" (6:9) and later described somewhat disparagingly as a "man of the field" (9:20), Moshe begins as an "Egyptian man" (Shemot 2:19) and is later referred to as "the man of God" (Devarim 33:1). As we saw, the Meshekh Chokhma explained the Midrash's comment to mean that Noach, who secluded himself from his contemporaries and never assumed any leadership role, experienced a spiritual decline, whereas Moshe grew over the course of his career in leadership, to the point where he is called "man of God." This Midrash thus teaches that contrary to what one would instinctively think, communal involvement and leadership enhances, rather than diminishes from, one's religious growth and development.

Rav Dov Weinberger, in his work Shemen Ha-tov, suggests a slightly different reading of this Midrash, though one that yields a very similar message. The description of Moshe as "an Egyptian man" alludes to the fact that Moshe did not carry himself with distinction or insist upon displays of honor and prestige. He was outwardly indistinguishable from the masses, because, despite his stature, he conducted himself as one of them, with a humble, down-to-earth simplicity. This quality of simplicity is what enabled him to reach the great heights that he achieved as an eved Hashem. Noach, by contrast, conducted himself as an ish tzadik, a "righteous man," living on his own plane, separate and above his contemporaries. His lifestyle of isolation had the effect of not only failing to positively impact upon the sinners of the time, who viewed him as aberrant and peculiar, but also stifling his own religious growth. Therefore, Moshe, the ish Mitzri, the man who worked and interacted with the people, ultimately grew to become an ish Elokim, whereas Noach, who conducted himself as an ish tzadik, distant and disengaged from the people, declined to the lowly level of an ish ha-adama.

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Noah vs. Moshe: Isolationism or Involvement

Noach appears to undergo a drastic transformation of religious character over the course of the parasha that bears his name. The bulk of the parasha tells the story of the flood and Noach's escape from it on account of his exceptional piety and religious stature. According to one view cited by Rashi in his opening comments to the parasha, had Noach lived in a more spiritually conducive society, he would have attained even higher religious standards. Once, however, Noach leaves the ark after the flood, he appears to conduct himself far differently. He plants a vineyard, drinks from the wine, and becomes intoxicated, at which point he removes his clothes. Such behavior is far from what we would have expected from the man depicted throughout the parasha as the most righteous man in the world at his time.

Chazal (Bereishit Rabba 36:6) describe this regression as follows: "Noach, after having been called 'ish tzadik' [a righteous man] is called an 'ish ha-adama' [man of the earth]." The Midrash proceeds to contrast this process undergone by Noach to the reverse progression of Moshe Rabbenu: "Moshe, after having been called an 'ish Mitzri' [Egyptian man] is called 'ish Elokim' [a man of God]." What idea does the Midrash seek to convey by drawing this contrast?

At the simplest level, the Midrash may perhaps intend to teach us the critical importance of progress. It is interesting to note that "ish ha-adama," the phrase seen by the Midrash as indicating a lowering of Noach's stature, appears in the narrative at the introduction to the story of his intoxication. Thus, even before he partakes of wine and engages in inappropriate behavior, he is criticized for being an "ish ha-adama." What this shows is that in Chazal's view, what matters most is one's direction. Is the individual growing or regressing? Is he increasing his knowledge, observance and spiritual awareness, or is he moving backward? Moshe, the Midrash remarks, spent his life growing and developing, progressing from one achievement to the next. Noach, by contrast, moved in the opposite direction. Even though more severe crimes have been committed than becoming an "ish ha-adama," a man of the field, the fact that Noach did so after having first been an "ish tzadik" earned him the sharp criticism of Chazal.

The Meshekh Chokhma, however, suggests that the Midrash focuses on a different point of contrast between Moshe and Noach. All righteous people generally fall into one of two categories. First, there are those who withdraw from society, live in relative isolation and focus as exclusively as they can on their own growth and spiritual development. The other type is the tzadik who involves himself intensively in communal needs, who becomes active in public affairs in an attempt to lead and inspire others. Instinctively, we would expect that the first group of righteous people would enjoy far more success in their spiritual endeavors than their counterparts in the second category. After all, public life almost always exposes one to contrary ideas and poses significant challenges to one's religious devotion. What more, a person working in public service does not have the time to focus on his own religious development as does the one who withdraws from communal life. This Midrash comes to teach us that this does not necessarily have to be the case. Noach, who was generally withdrawn from his contemporaries – in fact, the Torah records not a word of conversation between Noach and anyone else until after the flood – regressed from his religious stature. Moshe, by contrast, who led an entire multitude through the wilderness, who was as public as a public figure could be, continuously grew and progressed. It is possible, therefore, for those who work in the field of public service to continue growing spiritually, and a compromise of religious standards is not a necessary byproduct of communal involvement.

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A Man of the Earth - or a Man of God

A famous passage in the Midrash (Bereishit Rabba 31:3) draws a contrast between Noach and Avraham. Noach, the Midrash comments, is first described as an ish tzadik, a "righteous man" (6:9), and then later in life is referred to as an ish ha-adama – "a man of the land" (9:20). Noach's "regression" stands in direct contrast to the progression of Moshe, who early in life is called an ish Mitzri ("Egyptian man" – Shemot 2:19)) and then later an ish ha-Elokim ("man of God" – Devarim 33:1).

This comment by the Midrash clearly works off the assumption that the reference to Noach as an ish ha-adama is a derogatory one, or at least non-complimentary. That Noach earns such a description after having been praised as an ish tzadik is seen by Chazal as expressing a certain demotion in stature. The question arises, how precisely did the Sages understand the term ish ha-adama, and why does it reflect negatively on Noach's character at this point in his life?

The Rosh Yeshiva, Rav Aharon Lichtenstein shlit"a (www.etzion.org.il/vbm/archive/7-sichot/01noach.rtf), explains that Chazal took note of the fact that the Torah chose not to describe Noach as simply an oved ha-adama – "one who works the land." This description of Noach's choice of profession – agriculture – would assuredly not have invited any criticism on the part of the Midrash. The Gemara (Sanhedrin 58b) in fact remarks that "if a person makes himself like a servant to the ground – he will be satiated with bread; otherwise, he will not be satiated with bread." Chazal in a number of contexts emphasize the importance of work and industry and would never have criticized Noach for tilling the land, or viewed such activity as a "fall" from the stature of ish tzadik. However, the Sages insightfully noted that the Torah does not speak of Noach as simply a "worker of the land"; he had rather become an ish ha-adama, a "man of the land." Noach was consumed by his profession to the point where it became part of his very definition, his essential character. Whereas earlier he had been defined primarily in terms of tzidkut, piety and spiritual devotion, at this point he was defined by his work in the field, by the seeds he sowed and the fruits he harvested.

It is in this sense that the Midrash contrasts Noach with Moshe. Moshe was raised as an ish Mitzri, an Egyptian prince, in the capacity of which he was assigned numerous administrative duties. Yet, he managed to live a life characterized by the service of God, and thus he retained his essential definition of ish Elokim. The Midrash thus teaches that regardless of what profession a person pursues or how far he advances in his career, he must always remain an ish ha-Elokim, and always see himself as, first and foremost, a loyal and devoted servant of the Almighty.

In this context the Midrash also comments, "There were three [men] who were emphatically drawn towards the land [=agriculture], but no benefit could be found in them. They are: Kayin, Noach and Uziyahu." Interestingly, the downfalls of these three men, all of whom shared a passion for agriculture, occurred in three different areas. Kayin's failure was irrepressible envy, Noach indulged in wine, and Uziyahu grew arrogant, to the point where he insisted on performing the priestly duties in the Temple. This Midrash perhaps warns of the three possible effects of excessive preoccupation with one's work. First, such preoccupation can lead to competitiveness and the endless race to finish ahead of one's peers, as in the case of Kayin. The story of Noach warns of the tendency to overindulge in the fruits of one's success and thereby lose sight of his religious responsibilities. In the case of Uziyahu, the passion for industrial success led to conceit and an insatiable craving for honor.

It was admirable for Noach to immediately pick up the plowshares and begin cultivating the earth upon exiting the ark. His mission was, indeed, to spearhead the process of the world's reconstruction. Noach is criticized, however, for allowing this process to consume his life and his being to the point where he became essentially an ish ha-adama, rather than an ish tzadik or ish ha-Elokim.

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Saving Animals: Why an Ark?

The Ramban, in his commentary to Parashat Noach (6:19), addresses the obvious question of how the ark constructed by Noach could possibly have accommodated a pair of every species of animal on earth. The ark was indeed quite large, but certainly not large enough to house two of every species, particularly given that many animals are themselves very large. The Ramban writes that undoubtedly the animal kingdom's refuge in the ark was of a miraculous nature; a pair of every species fit inside the ark in defiance of the laws of physics, in order to ensure the survival of all creatures on earth.

Of course, this conclusion raises the question of why an ark was necessary in the first place. Or, at very least, as the Ramban asks, God should perhaps have instructed Noach to construct a small-sized vessel so as to maximize the great miracle of the animals' salvation. Why was Noach ordered to build an enormous ark, if it in any event would be unable to accommodate every species without a miracle? The Ramban initially suggests that this project was perhaps intended as a means of drawing the people's attention to the ark, which could potentially have had the effect of inspiring the generation to repent. Alternatively, the Ramban writes, God's command concerning the ark reflects His general tendency to minimize supernatural phenomena, to perform miracles through only minor deviations from the natural order. God ordered Noach to construct a large ship so as to limit the extent to which the animals would require a miracle to find space on the ark.

Rav Chayim Elazary, in his work Shevilei Chayim (Canton, 1947), offers a beautiful insight to enhance our appreciation of the precise role of the ark and to explain why God chose specifically this means of rescuing Noach and the animal kingdom. Ever since the second generation of mankind – Kayin and Hevel – relations among people have been characterized by envy, greed and violence. As Rashi (6:13) famously cites from the Gemara (Sanhedrin 108a), the sentence against the generation of the flood was issued specifically on account ofchamas – violent theft. The ongoing prevalence of thievery and violent struggle between individuals and clans, which began already in the earliest chapters of human history, could lead one to believe that such is the inescapable lot of mankind, that people – like animals – will forever be engaged in incessant and bitter conflict.

To dispel this disheartening notion, God saw to it that for the year of the deluge, representatives from all the earth's creatures will live together in perfect peace and harmony (or at least near-perfect harmony, according to the famous Midrashic passage of the lion that bit Noach's hand). As He flooded the earth, God also sowed the seeds of its reconstruction by demonstrating the ability of people and even animals to live together amicably in the cramped, crowded confines of an ark. This arrangement served as a precedent to the possibility of peaceful relations among people and even between man and beast. It proved that the world is not necessarily condemned to a state of chamas; violence and conflict are not essential ingredients of the human condition. Just as all creatures on the ark lived together harmoniously, so is it possible for mankind to lead a peaceful life and build and cultivate the earth with mutual respect and cooperation.

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Where was Avraham for Three Days?

Yishmael: Son of the Handmaiden or Son of Avraham?

Yoktan's Name

The Tower of Babel: A Beacon of Idolatry

Noah: Changing Times

Babylonia: Ideal Spot for the Tower

Moshe vs. Noah: Humility vs. Haughtiness

Noah vs. Moshe: Isolationism or Involvement

A Man of the Earth - or a Man of God

Saving Animals: Why an Ark?

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